Page 3

Chapter Three

LAN

Bánh mì fuels Sài Gòn, from the livelihoods of us vendors to the people we feed. I tie the makeshift plastic cover over the stall, wrangling the strings while the wheels groan. I win the tug-of-war and dust off the bánh mì crumbs stuck to my jeans. The sun paints streaks of orange and red throughout the sky, signaling the end of a long day. A damp towel meets my forehead, halting the incoming heatstroke as I shuffle through extra bills and stuff them into my pocket. Muscle memory moves my body, a monotonous dance I’ve learned as a street food seller. After spending all day with sweat on my face, I’d rather nap than write.

This writer’s block doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon.

“C ? m ? n, ch ? !” a student thanks me as I hand her the order.

“Enjoy. Come back soon!” I say the phrase I’ve practiced in the mirror way too many times. Our mood sells food. No matter the type of day I have, a smile must always be on my face.

I watch the student’s white áo dài flutter as she walks. Nestled in the heart of Sài Gòn, our business depends on restless and hungry students. They drive by on their motorbikes every morning, throwing bills for a bánh mì ? p la before hurrying off to class. A pang of regret pinches in the base of my throat, and I turn my attention back to flicking baguette pieces off my pants. Sometimes I wish I could scrub all the crumbs off my body, emerging as a clean slate without smelling like a bakery.

“Lan!” M á calls from the opposite side of the street, bags and bags of bánh mì ingredients in her arms. “Come help!”

“Why did you go without me!” I shout back as I cross to help her. “Your back and shoulders are going to hurt from carrying all of this.”

“Don’t yell at your mother.” She clicks her tongue but hands me the bags anyway. “I’m still strong.”

We cross back, M á stumbling slightly as she fishes for the painkillers. I look away, swallowing hard.

Chronic pain that started after Ba’s passing. She hid it from me for a long time, even after she’d gotten her diagnosis and told everyone else we know. Our relationship has always been distant, with me attached to Ba’s hip when he was still with us. Although we spend more hours together than not, M á seems to confide in anyone but me.

“What’s with all the ingredients? We’re closed for the day.”

M á jerks her head at the building across the street. “Special order. Bà Hai asked us to make bánh mì for their new international students. It’s mostly simple since foreigners can be kind of picky.”

Picky is an understatement. “I still remember when a group of tourists asked us if the patê was sanitary.” Little did they know that patê isn’t even a Vietnamese word. They wouldn’t be asking these questions if they were in France.

“People are a bit curious,” M á says, occupying the space next to me and undoing all my hard work of tidying up the stall.

“They shouldn’t ask us stupid questions, though. I can’t count how many times someone made a face walking by the snail lady next door. What’s wrong with eating snails?” I continue, helping her unpack the ingredients.

She passes me a baguette. I lather the bread with patê before pressing grilled meat inside the loaf, finishing it with pickled vegetables and a light drizzle of soy sauce. Maybe this bánh mì with too much patê will be for someone who’s curious .

“Con ? i, there’s only so much we can do,” M á says, resigned. “What use does complaining do for us? We can just work and hope that’s enough.”

With a tight lip, I nod my head. “Yes, M á .”

“What’s going on here?” Tri ? t returns from “studying” at the internet café. I think he’s hardly studying rather than studying hard.

“Special order,” I call back. “You’re helping or not?”

He’s definitely rolling his eyes at me. “Geez, I’m here.”

“Lan.” M á places a hand on my shoulders. I flinch instinctively, my stomach dropping when I see her concerned face. “Why don’t you take off early? Tri ? t can help me.”

“What about you?” I don’t like the thought of M á being alone.

“I’ll be fine!” She waves me off. “Tri ? t is just as fast as you.”

“But—”

“I’m offended, Lan. You’re implying that I can’t take care of my favorite aunt in the entire world,” Tri ? t butts in. I open my mouth to retort, but he ushers me away. “It’s okay, I’ll be here with her. I promise,” he whispers, handing me my tote bag and ruffling my hair before taking his post next to M á . He has a towering figure—protective and almost like Ba’s.

After Ba, Tri ? t filled the hole in our lives. Maybe it’s his nonchalant personality or the way that he takes after Ba, but M á ’s sullen expressions cracked after he came to live with us. She laughs more and even cooks more. Still, jealousy tugs at me for not being the person that pulled M á out from grief.

“Stop it, Cindy!” a voice squeaks from across the street.

They must be the international students, judging from the way they’re gawking at the city. A Vietnamese girl stands out from the group, though I can tell she’s American based on her accent. Overseas Vietnamese come all the time, always trickling into the city either because of nostalgia and a filial duty to visit, or simply because they want to strut the streets with accents and designer clothes. They’re not hard to spot. Like M á says, Vietnamese recognizes Vietnamese.

I tear my gaze from the students, but not before catching the girl’s eyes on me, too. Maybe she’s curious , M á ’s words echo in my head.

Well, at least her curiosity led her somewhere. My curiosity could hardly afford a flight outside of Vi ? t Nam.

With one look back at the stall, I slip into the maze of streets. Navigating Sài Gòn thrills me. My body twists and turns through the motorbikes, each step almost like a dance. Lanterns line the streets as the city readies itself for T ? t Trung Thu, the Mid-Autumn Festival. A goldfish lantern glimmers on the side of a shop, its holographic scales reflecting the evening sun. Grief creeps up my spine. Chinatown lion dancing. Me on Ba’s shoulders, reaching for the sky and the lanterns above us.

Another Trung Thu without him.

Instead of hurrying home, my feet take me to the nearby park as I spy the sunset and its red hues looming over the Sài Gòn skyline. I watch kids flying their kites nearby, some riding bikes with kites strapped to their backs. I make my way toward the street food vendors, settling on cá viên chiên before sliding onto a blue plastic stool and feeling lonelier than usual.

The worker slides a piping-hot plate of fish balls onto my tiny table. I snap photos of the plate from different angles, rearranging the brown, white, and orange fish balls for maximum effect. After almost a hundred photos, I pick the picture of me holding the plate against the pink sunset, editing its saturation and vibrancy before tapping share on Instagram.

I open my phone and stare at the submission announcement again. Instead of sleeping last night, my head swam through different ideas. Maybe a story about the lemon trees by the Amalfi Coast. The grand Angkor Wat in Siem Reap. Or even California, where most Vietnamese Americans are, with the ocean at their doorstep and—well, I don’t know what else. ’Cause I’ve never been.

The submission requirement is one story, one piece with the following theme: The Most Beautiful City in the World. The grand prize is a feature on the Southeast Asia Travel Magazine website and a grant that would keep our business afloat for at least a year. M á wouldn’t have to take special orders late in the day anymore, and maybe we could close early some days, too.

If Ba was still with us, would he encourage me to enter—to write? Would he believe in me?

Ba, I miss you.

I let the thought sink in, allowing it to course through my mind for the first time in months. When you miss someone, you want to be with them. But no flights can take me to him.

My feet carry me to the edge of the park, where the synthetic grass meets the river. I pick up a rock and release it from my hand, watching it bounce atop the murky water before sinking, invisible beneath the lotuses.

The day’s heat is simmering down as the sun starts to sink below the Sài Gòn skyline. Swirling the straw around inside the coconut with one hand, I click my pen with the other and begin to write, all while the Vietnamese American girl’s face floats into my head. I wonder why she’s here, and why so many people come to this city.

But that’s not my business.